


Vegetable Soup

by Vietta



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: But hes trying to learn, M/M, Reno cant cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6130554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vietta/pseuds/Vietta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reno stood with a carrot in each hand and wondered how the hell people knew when a carrot was ripe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vegetable Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenjudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjudy/gifts).



Going to a supermarket was not Reno’s favorite activity. In fact, he often avoided it in favor of eating out. Restaurants were easier to deal with, more direct. There was no real need to  _ choose  _ at a restaurant. He simply looked at the menu, ordered something that sounded good, and ate it when it came to him. He didn’t have to make anything. He didn’t have to clean up afterward. It was hot and ready and if he didn’t like it he could complain about it and get something else. 

Reno stood with a carrot in each hand and wondered how the hell people knew when a carrot was ripe. He thought about dropping the idea of cooking altogether. He added both to the growing pile of produce in his cart.

Reno had never been one to cook. His childhood experiences involved dicing up whatever he and his father could afford and boiling it in water until it was soft enough to eat. It didn’t really matter if the food was fresh or tasted good. His father only really cared about filling their bellies until some money came in and something  _ real _ could be afforded. It wasn’t satisfying and it usually tasted like shit, but it kept their stomachs from growling and that was what mattered. 

He kept wandering down the aisles grabbing what he needed, trying to remember the recipe he wanted to copy. Elena had gone shopping with him then. She’d grabbed all the things Tseng said they needed and he’d just watched and made a few weak jokes about what they bought. Now, he wished he had paid a little more attention to the products of choice. He really wasn’t sure what constituted good quality in chicken broth. How the hell did they broth chicken anyways? What the hell was broth? 

When they’d all been living at Healin, things had been different. They’d lived as a family and, for the first time in Reno’s life the meals were mostly homemade. The others simply didn’t  _ let  _ him eat junk food and nothing but. They had all taken turns cooking at first, but then Reno took a crack at making them a meal. He learned that, while his comrades trusted him with their lives, they didn’t trust him with their food. He was put in charge of entertaining Rufus while the others cooked after that.

Now, two years later, he’d invited all of them for dinner. No one had responded to the invite yet (they were likely thinking up excuses to avoid coming) but Reno was going to try and make a damn fine soup regardless. 

 

_ Tseng was chopping up vegetables so damn fast Reno expected to see a fingertip fly off and season their meal. Elena was talking with Rude while they made bread rolls and peeled potatoes respectively. Reno was standing on the opposite side of the counter from Tseng, watching as the knife rocked back and forth and split the carrots in his hand to bits. Tseng was focused and didn’t seem to notice he had a captive audience as he diced with practiced skill. Had Rufus not tugged on his belt and dragged him away to play cards before dinner, Reno could have watched all night. The soup had been delicious. _

__

Rude was the first to cancel, followed closely by Elena. Each had made dinner plans with their respective partners and while Reno was suspicious he made no comment and let them off the hook. He didn’t really expect Rufus to show up at all, but when he got a message saying his boss had agreed to dinner plans with Reeve instead he was mildly offended. Reeve was a damn fine cook, but his talking points involved either mechanics or politics and sometimes the conversation would loop. Reno knew that Rufus only pretended to enjoy these dinners.

He was chopping one of the carrots poorly when Tseng arrived. Reno had left the door unlocked and when the knock came simply shouted for his guest to let himself in. 

“You still need a shoe rack.” Reno could hear Tseng slipping off his boots, heavy Turk issues with a kevlar sole. 

“And a coat rack. I know.” He can almost hear that wool coat sliding off of Tseng’s shoulders and being draped neatly over the back of his sofa. The scarf is draped across it, folded into careful quarters. He can’t see it, but he knows.

Tseng has divested himself of his suit jacket as well when he rounds the corner and this comes as a shock to Reno. He isn’t used to Tseng letting his guard down so completely. “I may stop letting you invite me in if you keep putting off making your home civilized.”

Reno snorts, “You’re the one wearin’ a gun in the house.” He’s still chopping and making a mess of a perfectly good carrot.

“Would you like me to remove it, Reno?” Tseng touches his shoulder holster with a raised eyebrow. His handgun of choice is hanging there. It’s heavy, Reno knows this firsthand, and takes more than a fair amount of strength and control to wield. The weight alone soaks up some of the recoil, but not all of it. Reno’s wrist smarted for a few hours after emptying a full clip.

“Why? It’s not like you’d be unarmed without it.” He shrugs and keeps chunking vegetables. The carrots are a million different sizes and have been dumped into the heating broth with a few roughly chopped tomatoes and canned vegetables he had guessed at. 

Tseng watches as Reno starts chopping celery and the corner of his mouth twitches softly. “You’re right, I suppose.” He keeps it on.

Tseng watches quietly from the other side of the counter as Reno chops. Reno can use a knife to any purpose he needs when on the job, but now his hands are unsure. He doesn’t cut himself, but the food is uneven and cooks that way. Tseng doesn’t critique: he just observes.

When Reno places out chipped ceramic bowls of the thin soup with store-bought bread, he feels inadequate. It doesn’t look right. It’s not the way  _ they _ made. Not the way  _ Tseng  _ made it. It’s wrong, but he makes no apologies and sits down with a bottle of beer. Tseng twists the cap off and Reno uses a bottle opener on his own. 

The damn bottles weren’t twist-off anyways. Tseng is just showing off, he presumes.

Reno waits for Tseng to take a bite while they make small talk. It’s awkward for a moment; neither of them trust Reno’s cooking. When Tseng does muster up the courage to have a bite he doesn’t spit it out immediately, to Reno’s relief. He starts eating his own and hears Tseng chuckle. “Was I your guinea pig, Reno?”

Heat hits his cheek and he laughs, “Nah, I just didn’t want this to be my last meal if it sucked.”

“I wouldn’t shoot you over shitty soup, Reno.”

“What if I had poisoned it?” 

“You wouldn’t do that.” There’s no room for argument in Tseng’s tone. It’s not a warning, simply a firm statement. He looks Reno in the eye and Reno has to look at his bowl. The weight of Tseng’s gaze is too heavy to hold while sober. 

The rest of the meal is lighter. Tseng doesn’t mention that some of the vegetables are undercooked, he just eats and appreciates the effort put into the meal. Reno knows something is wrong with the soup, but he can’t put a finger on what it is. Once they finish, they sit on the couch (it’s the only decent piece of furniture in Reno’s apartment) and dig themselves into Reno’s ample liquor supply. The coffee table they set their glasses on is stained and wobbles a bit, but it’s useable and cleaner than the coffee rings would suggest.

The tumblers are clean and neither of them mind switching from whiskey to scotch when the first bottle of liquor runs dry. They watch grainy television and chat and drink until the wee hours of the morning. When Tseng’s head hits Reno’s shoulder he’s too dazed to react. The entire night has been unorthodox. The two haven’t drank alone together in nearly a year. Tseng is strict about keeping his public consumption of alcohol to a minimum. Reno turns to ask what makes tonight different, his face hovering inches above Tseng’s. He wants to ask what changed to make this alright. The last time they drank alone things got heavy in the wrong ways. Heavy like Tseng’s look over dinner.

The kind of weight Reno doesn’t know how to carry.

His voice sticks in his throat when Tseng cracks an eye and regards him with that same heavy look from earlier. It’s a look that asks questions Tseng won’t voice, but Reno would really like to answer. The looseness of liquor breaks and suddenly Reno feels tense, as if he can feel a garotte slipping around his throat. He isn’t sure if he wants Tseng to strangle him or let him loose. Tseng sits up, a hand on the back of Reno’s neck. The wire tightens and air leaves. The question is asked with a restrained press of Tseng's mouth and Reno answers. 


End file.
